A question that resurfaces over and over in my mind is: “do you remember who you were before people told you who/how to be?” I can write pages about this, about how experiences mould who you become, but do you know your essence? I remember being a quiet observer. In this loud time, over saturated with conversations and images and opinions and studies and people, in a world of hyper-mass media that I contribute to, it’s no wonder I find solace in a quiet space, because I Am there. It’s ironic that I chose a path of communication; there was once a time I felt I didn’t have to speak.
We waited to hear about the thundering rain,
beautiful thunderstorms against lush green mountains,
the overgrown wilderness, the emerald terrain
We waited to hear about the sound of water bombs against a tin roof
we waited to hear that she never saw the moon, just
purple-black clouds, velvety, passing through
We sat attentively, watching your mouth move
We decorated a party for you,
we welcomed you back home with flowers, pink, yellow, orange,
we prepared food.
We sat attentively watching your mouth move.
(I remember a field of fireflies.
I once ran through the field laughing,
until then I had only seen stars in the sky.
Someone said, “rub the creatures on your dress
and you too will be the light.”
The next morning I saw the creatures dead all over me
I could swim in the water, but I could never take the sea
I could taste the honey, but
I would never be the honeybee
God, what was I thinking?
Pitiful, what we so easily want to believe.)
My mother came home from the same fields
And we waited to hear about the wild sugar cane
Tell us about the sound of the rain,
about the sweet corn tamales, about
there are people in the fields,
but they do not chase fireflies.
there is a shortage of supplies
there is a war that the people cannot fight
even though they try,
everything they own, they must now divide
there is an infestation…
and the rain mimics the sounds of your grandmother’s cries.
what are you saying, mom?
(everything turning to stone, on the inside)
and … she replied:
grandfather is in his nineties
he can still climb the tallest fruit tree
the sugarcane is so sweet ..
an enormous sadness, like ants, crawled over me
while my mother’s eyes told us everything
we sat listening attentively
watching her lips move only.
I feel sad when I write poetry. I feel like a mute lover. I feel like a child, like I haven’t learned enough words to express passion. Sometimes, I think those words only exist in another language. Actually, I think they might. Pablo Neruda had the gift of using common things, like birds, or body parts, or oceans and saying they stood for other things, like for words that don’t exist. I am afraid to do that; to say a cat is water and that it’s how I felt about life…#journal #writing welcome to my #morning
What’s there left to do when
adoration is not enough,
silly antics are stale
and conversation floats in the room